He awoke with a start, the darkness of the room bringing him no comfort. Sweat covered him entirely, and his head would not stop swimming.
Closing his eyes was futile; he was greeted by an all too familiar eye.
An eye that could see him, that knew that he was there.
"Bilbo!" Thorin's voice rang throughout the room. "Bilbo, what happened?"
For a moment, Bilbo only sat, his breath heavy and delayed. There was not much that could be said anyway. It was always the same thing.
Bilbo leaned back down into the bed, one hand finding its way into Thorin's much larger one.
"Just go back to sleep," he said. Bilbo yawned. "You should not be up worrying about me."
"But, Bilbo-"
"Hush," he instructed.
Thorin rubbed Bilbo's palm with his thumb, the skin rough from years of work. "I am worried about you, Bilbo."
Bilbo sighed. "You have told me."
His eyes had adjusted to the dark. Around him, he could see the shape of the room that he and Thorin shared. Normally, it would have brought him comfort. It used to be that the dreams took place in far off lands, places Bilbo had never seen before.
That night was different.
That night, the eye had been in here.
"Please," Bilbo repeated, "just go to sleep."
Bilbo rubbed his eyes.
"You are not looking well," Dis said. "What has been troubling you?"
Bilbo shook his head, then yawned. "Nothing that you should be worrying about."
She raised a dark eyebrow. "Has something come up between you and Thorin? Is he having any problems?"
"No!" Bilbo's voice rang throughout the room.
All eyes of the company turned to him. It was only by luck that Thorin was too busy to sit down for breakfast with them that morning.
"Really," Bilbo added, "I am doing well. Things have been a bit hectic lately, but nothing that I cannot handle."
He was lying through his teeth, but no one seemed to notice. Maybe their food was just more interesting than the old hobbit.
Still, he felt Dis's eyes on him all throughput the meal. Rather than playing with their food, her sons joined in, sometimes whispering to each other.
Bilbo did not take seconds that morning, even if Bombur truly had outdone himself that morning.
Cooking used to be a peaceful hobby, a way for him to wind down. Now, Bilbo could hardly focus on the food.
What was he making again? He knew it was soup, but what kind? There were so many types in the world.
Oh, why could he not bring himself to care?
But then again, what was the point? All that mattered was the ring. It gave him power, a power that not even the mightiest of kings (no matter the race) could ever provide him. The ring made him the greatest burglar to ever live, and could easily make him far greater.
The eye did not matter. The eye had tried to speak with him before, could be worked with. Whoever the eye was, he could clearly see that Bilbo took special care of the (precious, precious) ring. Surely Bilbo could keep it.
He held it flat in his palm, admiring it. Most dwarves would shun it, call it simple. But Bilbo knew better; dwarves had foolish, simple ways. It was easy for their race to not understand the importance of things like this ring.
Smoke filled the air. The ring slipped back into Bilbo's pocket, and all thoughts turned to his (ruined) food.
They called him the simple king, though there was no offense meant in it. No one wanted another Thror. Songs were spoken of him, congratulations given for overcoming the sickness that haunted his line.
Whenever someone said it, he would only smile and point to the creature beside him. No dwarf he was, but a hobbit, a strange sight in those parts.
"I could not have done it without Bilbo."
And Bilbo would only smile. What else was there that he could do?
"I wish the best for you." Thorin blew out the candle by their bed, the room filling with darkness.
"I know."
Bilbo's eyes did not leave the stone dresser by his bed. How could he turn his eyes away from where something so precious lay inside?
Thorin leaned in closer to him, wrapping his arms around Bilbo's waist. "I hope that you can finally rest well tonight." Thorin leaned closer, kissing the back of Bilbo's neck.
For the longest time, Bilbo stared at his dresser. Were it not for Thorin's iron embrace, he would have gotten up. For once, he did not want to be there in Thorin's bed.
Why would Thorin want someone like him? Thorin needed someone different from him, someone who did not bear so much resemblance to him.
Bilbo was no hero; he knew that quite well, and he did not need to be reminded.
It was precious, so precious.
Bilbo was lucky, he knew, to get to have something so wonderful grace his fingers.